The Art of Boxing
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Sherlock Holmes teaches our dear Watson not to judge a book by its cover.


"_**I had seen Holmes box many times and had fenced with him often in the past….but only once had I been foolish enough to take him in a boxing match early on in our acquaintance." –Dr. Watson, Vows Made in Storms**_

"Have you ever boxed before, Doctor?"

I looked up from the yellow-backed novel that I had been idly flipping through and spotted my companion, seemingly engaged in the morning paper.

I had only been a short while in Baker street and was only just beginning to get used to my new friend's odd habits. One of which was firing off random questions that I could only assume seemed relevant to him because of the endless lines of observation and deduction that marched through his mind. A subject that appeared unrelated to the rest of us had no doubt been the center of his silent attentions for hours or more, it was not his fault if the rest of us could not follow his conversation.

"Eh?" I asked closing the book, It had not been very interesting anyhow.

"Boxed…have you ever boxed?"

"Yes of course I have." I said quickly. "I was in the military it goes without saying…why do you ask?"

He shrugged, already bored with the flow of the conversation.

"I had assumed you would have boxed at one point, but you bear relatively few of the boxer's characteristic markings. Your ears for example."

Despite my own boredom I really was not in the mood for another lecture on my own appearance and the clues scattered across my person. I interrupted with a question of my own.

"Does boxing interest you?"

"After a fashion." He drew on his pipe again, preparing to delve back into his paper.

I hurriedly formed another question for I was bored with my own company alone. "Have you ever tried it?"

"Yes."

I waited for him to elaborate and when he did not I spoke again.

"Just once or twice…Its not a frequent thing for you is it?"

"After a fashion." he said, being purposefully enigmatic, his lips twitching at my obvious curiosity.

"What." I said somewhat incredulously, for I had seen many boxers of many sizes…but never one so thin as he. Surely he would be snapped like a twig in the ring. "You?"

He set down his paper.

"I'll have you know Doctor that I am a very good boxer. One might even go so far as to call me an expert."

Dear reader, I should have let it rest at that and gone back to my melodramatic novel. I had learned after all that there were many surprises in my friend's personality and that I would often be incredulous about.

But I did not.

I laughed.

And when a fellow is laughed at, whether he is Sherlock Holmes or not, he cannot just let that pass.

His eyebrows raised, "You don't believe me?"

I chuckled, still not aware of the inevitable path this challenge had to take.

"Well it is a little unbelievable Holmes…I mean you're not exactly built for it."

He fixed me with a pointed stare and I grinned. "You cannot be serious."

"I assure you Doctor I have blackened many eyes without a mark of my own to show for it."

I frowned, he was joshing me, and I was determined to call his bluff.

"I don't believe it."

"That's your prerogative."

"Well show me then."

He grinned, and for some reason that grin sent a wave of apprehension through me.

I shook it off. If he was not bluffing then he had an inflated and inaccurate view of his own proficiency. Who else would box with him after all, besides men of his own weight.

"Are you certain my dear Watson?"

"I insist upon it. You cannot possibly be that good."

Holmes got to his feet, "Get your coat then."

I leapt from my chair and snatched up my jacket, realizing only belatedly that I was behaving rather like an excited child invited along on an outing. But considering the boredom and monotony of my life since my return from Afghanistan it was hardly surprising.

It was only a short time before I found myself ensconced in a cab with my flatmate and not much longer before we found ourselves at a boxing ring and readily supplied with the proper gear.

I was once again stricken with amusement as Holmes divested himself of jacket shirt and other effects, revealing his pale almost skeletally thin figure.

He carried on his preparations, ignoring me and put on my gloves. Ah well, perhaps with my bad shoulder the match would be nearer to equal.

When all was in readiment I slid between the ropes of the square, stretching.

"Ready Holmes."

My friend made his way unhurriedly after me, and faced off.

I will freely admit that I was grinning throughout this, certain that I was about to teach my self-confident companion a lesson in humility. I was not a poor boxer after all and how downed a few men.

We sized up and began to circle slowly as fighter with limited space are wont to do.

I took notice that Holmes was very light and quick on his feet, his stance really rather good.

A moment later I was wheeling backward, dazed not only from confusion but from the stunning blow he had sent at my jaw.

I regained my balance and silently reprimanded myself. Even with Holmes as my opponent it was not a good idea to let myself be so distracted.

I came at him, more cautiously, he had definite power behind his punches at least.

He swung at me, I blocked and before I had time to try a blow of my own found my stomach filled with Holmes' fist.

I grunted and swung at his face, trying to tighten my defense.

Two more blows landed one on my side and another on the side of my head.

I was not so confident anymore, in fact I was now doused in that cold feeling of apprehension. I looked at Holmes in amazement the cocky grin having vanished from my face.

Sherlock Holmes smiled.

In the end my shoulder and weakened stamina did not allow for a very long match and Holmes himself called it to a halt when he noticed my flagging pace.

He patted my shoulder as I lurched beside him out of the ring, gasping for breath, sweating and limping.

"You did very well Doctor, forgive me. I should never have called that fight, it was an unfair match what with your shoulder."

I waved off his apologies, simply relived that it was over.

"From now on…no matter what you say…I believe you." I gasped.

He smiled.

Three days later found us in fairly similar straits, both lounging about the sitting room, though I had traded my novel for a notebook and Holmes had gravitated towards his chemical table.

After a few silent moments he rose to his feet and approached the fireplace, picking up the poker and examining it thoughtfully.

"Do you fence Watson?"

I lowered my notebook took one look at his rather eager face and was not sure whether I should laugh, glare or cry.

"No."


End file.
